


give this bitch a hug

by WreakingHavok



Category: DreamSMP
Genre: Alexis | Quackity-centric, Crying, Gen, I . It was supposed to be fluff but it think it’s hurt/comfort, I almost forgot, Jschlatt-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Let’s go. This tag will be real im making it real, Music, They’re kids, quackity plays guitar, quangst, schlatt and Quackity in the sbi house it’s more likely than you think, thats right, the boys have a breakdown, theyre like tommyinnit level kids, this is platonic i swear, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:08:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27708803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WreakingHavok/pseuds/WreakingHavok
Summary: Schlatt laughs into his knees, albeit lackluster. “Is that the fucking Shrek song?”“Uh.” It is, but Quackity’s not about to admit it. “No. But if you want to hear the Shrek song -““I don’t want - I don’t want to hear the Shrek song.”“Is there something else you want to hear?” What is he doing? He doesn’t take requests.Hell, this was supposed to behisone am kitchen cry, yet here he is, two feet away from a kid who’s done nothing to indicate he wants any sort of relationship with Quackity besides being passive-aggressive over dinner.Schlatt’s quiet for a little, the occasional wet hiccup making it past his silent barrier. “You know - know ‘Two Birds?’”~Schlatt and Quackity sit on the floor at one am, and change isn’t the only bitch in the kitchen.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 302





	give this bitch a hug

“Good morning,” Schlatt says wryly, pointing to the microwave.

Quackity startles, swallowing down his yelp. It wouldn’t do to wake up Technoblade, whose room is adjacent to the kitchen, at one in the morning. He’d like to live to see noon.

“Uh,” he says eloquently, hiding his face in his jacket. “Morning.”

“Why are you sitting on the kitchen floor?” Schlatt asks, looming over him.

“Don’t you, like, hate me?” Quackity says, a poor attempt to sound like he hadn’t just been bawling his eyes out.

Schlatt doesn’t miss a beat. “Absolutely.” Oddly, there’s no venom in his words. “Forget it, then.”

“Okay,” Quackity says. The guitar weighs heavy in his hands, burning his cheeks with the shame of being caught with it.

Schlatt follows the hunch of his shoulders and points to it. “That was Wilbur’s, y’know.”

Wilbur. Schlatt’s big brother, gone off to some big-shot job with some big-shot producer, leaving his family behind without a care in the world - or so Schlatt says. Wilbur’s like a prism, some new color shining from him with every different story told. He’s not sure Schlatt’s view is completely fair, but Tommy’s hero worship is hardly believable either, so in the end all he can really think of the guy is _glad you’re not around to meet me_ and _thanks for the guitar._

“Techno said no one uses it,” Quackity defends uselessly, already carefully lifting the instrument to put it back in the case. He doesn’t need to be on Schlatt’s bad side, today. 

“I didn’t say you had to stop. Jesus. I’m not - you don’t have to -“ Schlatt winces, running a hand over his forehead, dislodging his ballcap. 

Quackity waits for exactly seven seconds before speaking again. “Okay.” The guitar settles back in his lap. Schlatt scoffs something unintelligible. 

Quackity picks absently at the strings. He hasn’t been able to play, much, since he’s been moving around pretty much non-stop for the past two years. He’d seen the case gathering dust in the living room and thought it would help clear his head, but all that ended up happening was the weight of the universe forcing ugly sobs from his chest as he hugged the instrument to him. 

It just feels like he’s a beat out of time, lately, what with a new house, and a new school, and Schlatt being unable to make up his mind about him. It just feels like he’s a half-step out of tune. 

Speaking of which, the guitar falls flat near the top three strings. Quackity pulls a face and reaches for the pegs. 

And Schlatt sits down on the cold tile across from him. 

Quackity freezes. “I won’t break it,” he says.

“I’m not even here,” Schlatt grumbles, knees pulled to his chest. He stares off into the distance. “Do whatever.”

It’s much less of a fun time to play with someone watching, but Quackity’s not looking to get into a fight again. Letting his head hit the wood of the kitchen island and his mind wander, he focuses on the wood beneath his palms, the ridges of the metal, memorizing the frets and running his right hand lightly over the strings. Familiar, safe, and, well, there he goes - dangerously close to crying again.

A choked whimper breaks through his thoughts. Fuck - did he just make that noise involuntarily? 

Quackity opens his eyes, ready to brush it off as something stuck in his throat, before he realizes that his own airway is perfectly clear and Schlatt’s head is in his hands and his shoulders are shaking. 

Quackity doesn’t say anything, for what’s probably too long, but to be fair - fucking Jay Schlatt, the scourge of the Watson household for the three whole years but still about as well-adjusted as a loose screw, is _crying_ in the kitchen at one am in front of him.

Quackity plays a buzzy C7 to signify his emotional conflict. 

Schlatt’s breath hitches. “Fuck.”

C Major, picking up an arpeggio. Quackity moves his fingers without thinking to a minor, then back to C, eyes fixed on the slump of Schlatt’s shoulders. 

Schlatt laughs into his knees, albeit lackluster. “Is that the fucking Shrek song?”

“Uh.” It is, but Quackity’s not about to admit it. “No. But if you want to hear the Shrek song -“

“I don’t want - I don’t want to hear the Shrek song.”

“Is there something else you want to hear?” What is he doing? He doesn’t take requests. 

Hell, this was supposed to be _his_ one am kitchen cry, yet here he is, two feet away from a kid who’s done nothing to indicate he wants any sort of relationship with Quackity besides being passive-aggressive over dinner.

Schlatt’s quiet for a little, the occasional wet hiccup making it past his silent barrier. “You know - know ‘Two Birds?’” 

Quackity pinches his arm and is horrified to find he’s not dreaming. 

Schlatt listens to Two Birds. Schlatt is crying in front of him. The world is ending at one am in the foster home he’s lived in for a month and he’s playing ‘Hallelujah’ on a stranger’s guitar. “I, I do.” 

“I’d like that one,” Schlatt mutters.

Quackity decides it possibly can’t get worse, and humors his request. 

He doesn’t remember all the words, forced to merely mumble when his memory fails him. His voice is hoarse with the early hour and he doesn’t get the chords quite right in some places, and he fucks up the moving lines more than he’s willing to admit. It’s a pretty shit rendition of the song, in the end, but it’s gotten Schlatt’s head to lift from his knees, tears transferred from his cheeks to the sleeve of his tacky crewneck.

The silence after Quackity mutes the strings is deafening.

“Why are you crying?” he decides on, and promptly waits for Schlatt to snap his neck for such a stupid question. 

Instead, Schlatt takes a huge breath in and out. “I, uh, don’t know.”

Lying. “That’s alright.” He can respect it.

“You, man?” Schlatt asks, rubbing his eyes. “Don’t think I didn’t hear you on my way downstairs.”

“Oh.” Quackity averts his eyes. “No. I just - I cry about everything. I was crying about being awake. About the leftover spaghetti from Friday. About my overdue Government assignment.”

Schlatt squints. “Right.”

“Right,” Quackity says. He leans forward, pulling the guitar case back towards him to put the damned thing away, daring to run his mouth because he’s tired and nothing is real. “But I’ve got another question.”

“Shoot.”

“Why are you suddenly talking to me?”

Schlatt shrugs. “I’m too tired to be an asshole, man. Besides. I - you - I don’t mean to make you, uh, uncomfortable.”

“You don’t scare me,” Quackity scoffs.

“That isn’t what I said,” Schlatt says. 

Well. He’s got Quackity there. “I can handle it.”

“Shouldn’t have to. I shouldn’t be such a jerk.”

“Okay.”

“I shouldn’t be, I shouldn’t be so mean, yeah?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“See, like, things are just different without Wilbur,” Schlatt says, and there it is. That name again. 

“Sorry,” Quackity says simply.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do?” Schlatt says miserably. He looks familiar in that moment, less of a threat and more of a tarnished mirror. 

Quackity thinks about it and knows he doesn’t really have an answer. It makes him uneasy to just shrug off the climax of Schlatt’s issues, especially since he’d gotten to hear them in the first place, so he settles for the next best thing to advice. “Come here.”

“What?”

Quackity pats the wood of the island beside him. “C’mere, bitch.”

“Hey,” Schlatt frowns. “If anyone’s a bitch, it’s you.”

“Yeah,” Quackity says, opening his arms wide. “Come give this bitch a hug.”

“Don’t,” Schlatt says, “don’t say it like that. Don’t make it weird.”

“Ooo, you wanna hug me so bad.”

Schlatt’s laughing, now, trying to push it down and failing. “I’ll go back upstairs, hombre, shut up.”

“You wanna hug me so bad,” Quackity croons, a crooked smile of his own snaking across his face. “Ooo.”

Schlatt rolls his eyes, but he scoots across the floor regardless. “Fine, fine, just keep it down.”

There’s one second where Schlatt seems to hesitate, back mere inches from Quackity’s waiting arms. Quackity makes the choice for him and lunges.

Schlatt splutters and catches himself with his hand. “Fuck!”

Quackity wraps his arms around Schlatt, face awkwardly pressed into the taller’s neck. Schlatt breathes, and Quackity moves with him, a mess of gangly limbs that settles into a strange sort of embrace. Quackity’s leaning on Schlatt who’s pressed against the kitchen island, arms hooked under Quackity’s shoulders for counterbalance. 

Silence spreads through the kitchen again. Quackity surprised to find Schlatt’s heartbeat is directly under his ear. 

“Okay,” Schlatt says. It wavers. “Are you happy?”

“Yes,” Quackity tries to say, but his post-cry exhaustion and the late hour has hit him like a semi and his limbs feel like lead, so what really comes out is, “mhmng.”

“Okay,” Schlatt says. 

It’s totally up to Schlatt to end this. Quackity’s eyes are sliding closed. When Schlatt dumps him onto the cold tile, he thinks, maybe he’ll be awakened enough to make it to his room before passing out.

“Okay,” Schlatt says again, but instead of letting Quackity slide out of his grip, he pulls him closer, leaning his head on Quackity’s.

“Hm,” Quackity says, which means _I thought you hated me._

“Yeah,” Schlatt says, choked. His heartbeat is still going, an odd sort of metronome. 

“Mmhm,” Quackity says, which means _I’m sorry about your brother._

“Thanks, Big Q,” Schlatt finally mutters, and it’s the last thing Quackity hears.

**Author's Note:**

> khio said “you can’t write fluff” and I said “you’re absolutely right here’s 1.5k written at 3 am”


End file.
